Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, March 27, 1851, Image 1

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    ° lamo/bon
From Arthur's Homo ()aeons.
sprtng le coming—bear the tinkling
Of her footsteps on the plain;
Emerald treasures she is sprinkling,
O'er the grave-mounds of the slain.
Weary, way-worn winter, dying
Where so long lie's reigned a king,
Down his frosted sceptre, lying
In the lap of merry Spring.
Laughs she, at his mournful sighing,
She's no heart his woes to feel,
Sings she, at his tearful flying,
On his exit, sets her seal.
See it on the green grass, springing,
Sec it in the bursting leaves,
Ilear it in the happy singing
Of the swallows 'nenth the caves.
Balmy-breathed, and blossom-laden,
Still she creeps ndown the hills,
Merry-hearted, blithesome maiden,
Kissing open frozen rills.
In the brilliant sunlight gleaming,
'Mid the song of bird and bee,
Nature n .;ua from her dreaming,
To a blessed juhil,o !
I will love thee in the spring-time,
For 'twas spring when first we met,
All on earth seem'd bright around us,
And that brightness lingers yet;
It is true that we were younger,
But so joyous was the scene,
We have scarcely felt that Winter
With his chilly breath has been.
O'er our day of spring -tide weather,
Joy's sun has scarcely set,
Then I'll love thee in the spring -time,
For 'twas spring when first we met.
twill love thee in the summer,
For, when the spring was o'er,
In the summer of thy beauty
Thou wert fairer than before; •
And now the fruits of autumn.
Are ripen'd on the bough.
And autumnal days creep o'er us,
I will love thee dearly now.
Though our spring of lite is over,
Riper fruits life's branches fill,
Then in sammer and in autumn;
I will love then dearly still.
And now winter is approaching,
And the sunshine must depart,
If we closer cling together,
He can never touch the heart.
For the days that are departed,
Oh ! we never will repine,
While we live and love together,
And such joys arc thine and mine,
All the seasons I will love thee,
All the days thou shalt be dear—
Yes—l'll love thee all the year.
If I were a voice, a persuasive voice,
That could travel the wild world through,
I would fly on the beams of the morning light ;
And speak to mon with a gentle might,
And tell them to be true;
I'd fly, I'd fly o'er land and sea,
Wherever a human heart might be,
Telling a tale or singing a song,
In praise of the right, in blame of the wrong.
If I were a voico, a consoling voice,
I'd fly on the wings oldie air—
The homes of sorrow and guilt I'd seek,
And calm and truthful words I'd speak,
To save them from despair.
I'd fly, I'd fly o'er the crowded town,
And drop like the happy sunlight down,
Into the hearts of suffering men,
And teach them to rejoice again.
If I wore a voice, a convincing coke,
I'd travel with the wind,
And wherever I saw the nations torn,
By war, jealousy and scorn,
Or hatred of their kind,
I'd fly, I'd fly on the the thunder crash,
And into their blinded bosoms flash,—
And all their evil thoughts subdued,
I'd teach them Christain brot:lerboocl.
If I were a voice, a prevailing voice,
I'd seek the kings of earth,
I'd find them alone on their beds at night,
And whisper words that should guide thorn right,
Letters of priceless worth ;
I'd fly more swift than the swiftest bird,
And tell them things they never heard—
Truth which Gtr ages for aye repeat,
Unknown to the statesmen at their feet.
An interrogatory of silver bweetnce, agil an
&newer of diamond beauty, are continued ig tho
following method of "getting to go home with
The moon shines bright,
Can I go home with you to night t
"The Mere , 4o too—
; ',set we if Tee ie."
We take the following extract from an article in
the March number of the Republic, a Monthly
Magazine of American Literature, Politics and
Arts, edited by Thomas R. Whitney, Esq., and
published at two dollars a year. The office of
publication is at 100 Nassau street. The Maga
zine is thoroughly American, and deserves the
support of those who belivee that there is such a
thing as American Literature. It is filled with
excellent matter, illustrated and printed in hand
some style. The extract which we give below is
from the pen of the editor :
I shan't forget it, said the old man with a slow
shake of the head; I shan't forget that night the
longest day that I live. You have heard, my boy,
how General Washington—peace to his memory !
—was obliged to quit York bye council vote, and
go up to Harlem Heights, when the British Gen
eral Howe, who commanded the red coats, was
just about moving in I only wish we'd a stayed
there. But no matter. Washington, with the
main body of his army, went up to the Heights,
and General Putnam, with our brigade, was order
ed to camp just outside the city—'twant half as
big then as 'tis now, though—and we stopped at
Corkers Hook, and 'camped. This was along
about the middle of September, in 1776, just after
the Declaration of Independence was signed.—
There we stayed about half a day and ono night ; '
and that was long enough too. What could we do
there? a little han'ful against all Howe's army.—
Old Put was desp'ret proud at being left there.—
He was no coward, my boy, I tell you; and we
all used to think he'd a little rather fight than eat,
any day. But when the red coats came on us on
three sides, and two of them was betwixt us and
'the Heights, I tell you it looked squally. There
was only one way left, however, and that was to
fight our way through. Our General wasn't afraid
of Satan himself; but he knew then that we were
lin a bad condition, and that we looked to him to
get us out of it. First of all, there wes a full bri
gade of red coats, with cavalry coming towards us
from the city; and there was another coming down
front Kipp's Bay; and another from the North
River, where they'd landed, and our division was
frittered away to almost nothing. They numbered
three times as many as we did ; but we must go
at some rate or 'nether: so the drums beat to mus
ter, and in less than five minutes our tents were
struck and stowed in the wagons, our lines was
formed, and our General, Old Put, rode down be
fore us as grand as a king !
" Now, my boys," says he, "there's no time for
talk ; we must fight our way through these red
coats, and join General Washington. Forward!"
We gave the old fellow three cheers, my boys,
formed our columns, and started off with flags fly
ing and drums beating ! Well, it was not more
titan five minutes before we met the rascals coming
from Kipp's Bay, and we'd a whipped their coats
off 'em in short metre, but the other brigades canto
on to as, and we wore obliged to look out for safe
ty, instead of conquest ; so we made a strong push
and fought our way through, but, after all, a good
many were left behind prisoners, and some poor
fellows that never lived to fight again for liberty.
And there was a good many wounded, too, that
escaped death and capture ; some had to lose their
arms, and some their hands, or a leg; and their
sufferings were dreadful. But there was one mor
' tally wounded in that skirmish, that see all wept
over—ono that the whole regiment loved, and not
a man of us that wouldn't a laid down his life for
her, any day—poor Annie. She was so sweet, and
so pretty, too, and obliging to everybody; and
never did she pass one without a kind word and a
gentle smile. You wonder who site was, my boy;
well, I'll tell you t
It was about two months before we left York,
and while we were at Brooklyn Heights, as I heard
our Captain tell, that one evening there came to
his quarters, band in hand, a little boy and a girl
larger, but not much older than the boy. He was
about fourteen years old, and she was not yet six
teen, and both looked sad, and almost heart-bro
ken. It appears that they had known or heard of
the Captain before, and so, in their distress they
made bold to inquire for him. The brave little
fellow had come to get permission to 'list in our
company, bat that couldn't be, and so the Captain
told him. But he was curious to know the reason
of the application, and being a little kind-hearted,
too, and seeing they were in great distress, he
thought he might do something for their good.—
So be told them to sit down and tell why they
came to him for such a purpose. The little boy
began his story, and his sister began weeping;
but when the youngster mentioned his father's
name, the Captain remembered him, and interrup
ting the hoy, inquired after him. "Ho is dead,
sir," answered the lad, dropping his head, as the
tears flowed from his eyes. "He was killed, sir,
at Sullivan's Island." Our Captain confessed
that he felt like crying, too, when he heard this;
for he knew ;hat, except their mother, they knew
no other relative, and must be helpless. SO he
inquired why they had left their mother. "At
this," said he, "they seemed to choke with emo
tion—they could nut answer." So he asked again
"is your mother dead too?" They bowed their
heads in reply, but neither could titter a word.—
“Poor orphans ?” said the Captain, "I will see
what can be done for you."
" The little fellow told hint that his father had
been persuaded to join the army, under a promise
that his family would be taken care of; but they
had received nothing but what came from his pay
and their own labor, with which they managed
to live pretty comfortably, till they heard of their
father's death. Then their mother grow sick, and
ta *few &ye As 4ts.l—iorokee hiartad, T surrese.
To make my story short, our good hearted Cap
tain spoke to the Colonel, and it was agreed be
tween them that they would make a drummer of
the lad, for he was too small to carry a gun ; and
then it puzzled them to know what to do with his
sister. But she soon settled that question, by tel
ling them that she would go with him and never
part from him. She was not afraid, she said, and
she knew she would be useful in the camp, or any
where her brother went. So, at last, they quar
tered her with the sutler's wife, and in less than
a week we all loved poor Annie, as though she
had been our own child; for, except a tear now
and then, that would steal from her eyes in mem
ory of her father and mother, she. seemed to be
the loveliest little angel alive. I know she put
on, sometimes, though, to please us, for she knew
we didn't like to see her look sad, and yet there
was a kind of sweet melancholy in her manner.
Besides, wasn't she a soldier's orphan? Wasn't
she the child of one who had laid down his life in
our cause? and wasn't it our duty to love her?
Her brother learned first at his drum; in a month
he could handle the sticks with the best drummer
in the regiment, and by the time that " red coat"
Howe came with his Hessians to attack us, be was
ready and fit for duty, and as clever a lad no ever
beat a reveille or a roll in the armies of 'Washing
ton. Before that battle, little Annie was sent
over to York with the women—for Old Put said
lie wouldn't have any women around when there
was fighting to do; and when we went over after
the battle, she joined us again, and continued with
us till the night after we fought our way to the
Heights. At that time we were surprised so end
denly that we had no time for preparation. Annie
had been put in a sutler's wagon with some oth
ers, and placed under an escort, close in the rear
of the column, and soon after the skirmish began,
they were thrown into the midst of it. The brave
girl, forgetting all fear in the excitement, rose
from her seat like a hero, to cheer her fighting
comrades, when a British bullet struck her in the
side, and she fell into the arms of a companion.
It way have been a chance shot—l hope it was—
(continued the old man,) for I know that the
wretch who could cruelly murder such an inno
cent child as that, would not sleep easy in his bed
after it. The effect that her fall had on those who
saw it was more disastrous than would have been
the appearance of another brigade of red coats.—
We all thought her dead, and for an instant our
attention was more On her than on the enemy.—
Many a brave heart fell when she fell, and do be
lieve that if the General himself had been shot
instead of her, it would not have caused, in our
regiment, a greater panic. Poor Henry, her broth
er, being on the right of the column, knew noth
ing of her injury till we reached the Heights, and
every tap of his drum, as we moved forward,
went to our hearts like a death shot.
We soon learned, however, that the sweet flow
er was alive, and you may believe that if the
watering of tears, shed by brave men, could have
preserved her life, she would have lived long years
idler. But, although yet alive, the surgeon told
us that her wound was dangerous, and, as he fear
ed, fatal. So indeed, it proved. Breath by breath
she lingered; suffering, hour after hour, till near
midnight, when her pure soul was lifted from earth,
and flew to mingle in a happy re-union with the
spirits of her loved and lost parents. Yes, on that
sad night she died, and there, on the Heights of
Harlots, we buried her. Sho was not entitled to
an escort by the rules,of war, my boy, but wo gave
her one—we did and under a volley from a ser
geant's guard, wo placed in the earth the remains
of our little ANNIE.
Kept the Toddy Hot.
Old Parson 8., who presided over a little flock
in one of the back towns in the State of M., was,
without any exception, the most eccentric divine
we ever knew. his eccentricities were carried as
tbr in the pulpit as out of it. An instance we
will relate:—
Among his church members was on who inevi
tably made a practice of leaving the church ere
the parson was two-thirds through his sermon.—
This was practiced so long, that after a while it
became a matter of course, and no one, save the
divine, seemed to take notice of it. He at length
notified Brother P., that such a thing must, he felt
assured, be needless; but P. said that at that hour
his family needed his services at home, and he
must . do it; nevertheless, on leaving church, be
always took a roundabout course, which, by some
mysterious means, always brought him in close
proximity with the village tavern, which he would
enter, and " thereby hangs a talc."
Parson B. ascertained from some source that
P.'s object in leaving the church was to obtain a
" dram," and he determined, too, to stop his leav
ing and disturbing the congregation in future, if
such a thing was possible.
The next Sabbath, P. was going out, as was his
custom, when the old Parson called out—" Broth
er P.?"
P., on being thus addressed, stopped short and
gazed towards the pulpit.
" Brother P.," continued the parson, "there is
no need of your leaving church at this time, as I
passed the tavern this morning, I made arrange
ments with the landlord to keep your toddy hot
until church was out."
The surprise and mortification of the brother
can hardly be imagined. He shrunk back to his
seat, and for the rest of the day was the " observ
ed of all observers." Ho didn't visit the tavern
after church, neither did he again leave the church
ere services were concluded.
a. A lazy fellow once declared in public com
pany, that he could not find broad for his family.
"Nor I," replied an industrious mechanic, "I am
obliged to work for it."
From the London Punch.
Fallacies of the Gentlemen.
That women are only born to be their slaves.
That dinner is to be ready for them, the very
minute they come into the house.
That a lady's bonnet can he put on as quickly
as a gentleman's hat.
That we can dress in a minute ; and that ring
ing the bell violently has the effect of making us
dress one bit the quicker.
That they can do everything so much better
than we can, from nursing the baby down to pok
ing the fire.
That they are "-the Lords of Creation," (pret
ty lonls, indeed !)
That nothing can be too good for them ; for I
am sure if you were to put a hot joint before them
every day that still they would be dissatisfied, and
would be grumbling that you never gave them
coald meat.
That they know our age so much better than
we do ourselves. (It's so very likely.)
That they may invite whom and as many an
they please, but if we only invite our mamma to
come and stop with us, or just ask a dear unmar
ried sister or two to stop with us fur a month,
that there's to be no peace for us so long as they
remain in the house.
That music can be learnt without practising,
and that it is necessary for them to rush out and
to slam the door violently the very moment we
begin to open our voices, or to run over the last
new Polka.
That sleeping after dinner promotes conversa-
That they know what dress and bonnet becomes
us so much better than we do.
That it is necessary to make a poor woman cry,
because a stupid shirt-button happens to be off.—
I declare some men must believe that their wives
cut off their shirt-buttons purposely, from the
savage pleasure they take in abusing them for it.
That we are not allowed to faint, or to have the
smallest fit of hysterics, without being told " not
to make a fool of ourselves."
That housekeeping does not require any money;
and if we venture to ask for any, that it is pleas
ant to he met with all sorts of black looks and Me
sinuations as to "what we can do with it all ;" or
very agreeably be told that we will be " the ruin
of him some day."—(l should like to see the day!)
That the house never requires cleaning, or the
tables rubbing, or the carpets beating, or the fur
niture renewing, or the sofas fresh covers, or, in
fact, that anything has a right to wear out, or to
be spoilt, or broken ; and, in short, that every
thing ought to last forever!
That a poor lone woman is never to have any
phmure, but always, always, to stop athome, and
"mind her children." (Pm tired of such non
That the wish to go to the opera is to be the
sure prelude to a quarrel.
That their slaughters can learn music, painting,
playing, dancing, and all the accomplishments,
without the aid of a single master.
That the expenses of one's household do not
increase with one's family, but, rather, that ten
children can be supported for the same cost us
That no husband is perfect, unless like Hercules
with his club, and that the less a wife sees of her
husband, the fonder she actually grows of him.
That it is a pleasure for us to sit up for them.
[The fair correspondent says, she thinks the
above fallacies are enough for the present, and we
certainly agree with her; but if the gentlemen
show nay more of their airs, she declares that she
will give them a lot more.]
Pitcairn's Island.
Capt. Wm. B. Drew, of ship Lebanon, of New
York city, has communicated to the Boston, Jour
nal, a very interesting aceout of a visit to Pitcairn's
Island, in the Pacific, made by Capt. Arthur, of
ship Zenas Coffin, of Nantucket. In an interview
with Capt. Drew, Capt. Arthur stated that the
Islanders were fine looking, well dressed, orderly
and virtuous, spoke good English, and were hos
pitable in the highest degree—furnishing him with
water, sweet potatoes, fruits, &c., in great abun
dance. The number of inhabitants was one hun
dred and sixty, of whom a large proportion were
children. In 1831, the number was but sixty-five.
The island is represented as "almost a Paradise."
It was stated by one of the principal men, that ver
min, as well as weeds, were unknown for many
years, until introduced by ships calling at the isl
and. Captain Arthur states, further, that the isl
anders had agreed to furnish an American ship
which touched there, with 1000 bushels of sweet
potatoes for California, in the Spring, from which
it is judged that the cultivation of that root is car
ried to a considerable extent. The island was or
iginally settled by a company of mutineers, from
the British ship Bounty.
eir There is but a breath of air and a beat of
heart betwixt this world and the next. And in
the brief interval of painful and awful suspense,
while we feel that death is present with us, that
we aro powerless and the last faint pulsation here
is but the prelude of endless life hereafter; we
feel, in the midst of the stunning calamity about
to befall us, that earth has no compensating good
to mitigate the severity of our loss. But there is
no grief without some benificent provisions to sof
ten its intenseness. When the good and lovely
die, the memory of their good deeds, like the
moonbeams on the stormy sky, lights up out dark
ened hearts, and lends to the surrounding gloom a
beauty so sad, so sweet, that we would not, if
we could, dispel the darkness that surrounds.—
4 1 ,4 cit i-4
ont (
A Sentiment from Piedmont.
At the sitting of the Chamber of Deputies at
Turin, on Feb. 12th, the Marquis d'Azeglio, Min
ister for Foreign Affairs, delivered the following
speech on presenting the budget of his depart
" Gentlemen : A political conduct founded upon
justice anti good faith has always been the best,
and will continue to be the most useful. Much
has been said of lido on State expediency; for my
part I do not believe those two different standards
of morality, one for the men who govern, and one
for those who are governed, and I do not think
State expediency should deviate from common
morality. Absolutism and the policy of bad faith
have bad their time. They were in vigor when
public affairs were managed by a king and a few
ministers, and often by a favorite or a mistress.—
But at that time the periodical press was weak,
the means of communication rare, and public opin
ion without power. But now, if I but touch pub
lic opinion, it vibrates instantly from Edinburg to
Moscow, with the rapidity of lightning. I cannot
deny that there is a terrible and obscure problem
to be solved, the future destiny of society l Ido
not pretend to solve it, but I affirm on my consci
ence that society can only find repose under a Gov
ernment of good faith.
Negroes in lowa.
A Goon Joitz.—An incorrigible wag has ad
mirably succeeded in perpetrating a capitl joke
upon the lowa Legislature. In passing upon the
bill prohibiting negroes from entering that State,
and affixing heavy penalties upon them when they
do enter it, J. T. Morton, of Henry, who is
both a Whig and a wag, moved an additional sec
tion, "that the bill should be in force from and
after its publication in the lowa Free Democrat,"
the abolition paper at Mount Pleasant. The bill
went back to the Hoot so amended. The amend
ment was accepted by the House, and the hill pass
ed. After awhile, the idea began to eke through
the hair of a member, that the abolition organ
might decline publishing the law, and thereby kill
it stone dead, and he moved a re-consideration,
but failed, the bill was left to be scut to the Gov
ernor iu that crafty shape.
Order and Cheerfulness.
It is not essential to the happy home that there
should be the luxury of the carpeted floor, the
cushioned sofa, the soft shade of the astral lamp.
These gild the apartments, bat reach not the heart.
A neatness, order, and a cheerful heart make home
the sweet paradise it is often found to be. There
is joy, as real, by the cottage fireside, as in the
splendid saloons of wealth and refinement. The
elegancics of life are not to be despised. They
are to be received with gratitude. But their pos
session does not insure happiness. The sources of
true joy are not so shallow. The cheerful 'mart,
like the kaleidoscope, causes most discordant
materials to arrange themselves in harmony and
Woman's Influence.
Woman is ever moulding the future man.—
However undesignedly she may exert it, her in
fluence is around him and upon him. He comes
in contact with it on all hands; nature renders its
withdrawal impossible. The expression of the
mother's countenance, the tunes of her voice,
whether addressing her child or those around; her
feeling and ideas have given a stamp, before in
fancy is passed, to his character which after years
may deepen, but seldom, Weyer, obliterate. This
influence dues not lose its power; the boy and the
youth arc moulded by it. The mother, the sis
ter, and even the servant-maid will sympathize
with the sorrows of boyhood, and listen to the
day-dreams of youth, when man would disdain to
lend an ear. Nor is her influence less potent when
youth is passed. She is with man in the hour of
man's weakness; to her he flies fur assistance and
sympathy in the season of sufli:ring, and her sen
timents become a part of his nature.
Cif A LADY was lately waited on by a poor
woman who lived in the neighborhood and who so
licited charity, urging that she had named her
child after the lady.
"I had understood that the little one was a boy,"
said the lady.
"So it is," said the other.
"Certainly, then, you could not have given it
my name."
"I know it," said the other; "but your name is
Augusta, and I named my boy Augustus, which is
so near it that I thought you would give me a new
frock for him; and I will do without the apron on
account of the difference in the last syllable."
General Scott.
Gen. Winfield Scott, may now be looked upon
as the candidate for the Presidency. so far as Penn
sylvania is concerned; and the late visit of the
members of the Legislature, and numerous citi
zens, to Washington, will not set him back in pop
ular favor. The opinion has prevailed to a great
extent that he is a proud and haughty man, and
not easily approachable by the masses of the peo
ple. This is an entire mistake.
Gen. Scott, it is true, has a military bearing and
look, but he is as genial in his feelings and man
ners as it is possible for any one to be. We called
upon him on the late visit to Washington in com
pany with several members, and heard others
speak of their interview, and all concur in saying
that it was one of the most pleasant visits made on
the trip. Gen. Scott is a great man—the man of
the age, and he has a groat heart. Ile is admired
by the world, and loved by his countrymen. The
Whigs should rally for him at once, and in earnest
or machinations may defeat him. Though he is a
soldier, ho is used only to the open field, and may
stand a poor chance with mousing politicians t--
VOL. XVI.-NO. 12.
Beautiful Extract.
There is an even-tide in human life, a Reese*
when the eye becomes dim, and strength decays,
when the winter of age begins to shed upon the
human head its prophetic snows. It ig, the season
of life to which the autumn is most analogous, and
which it becomes; and much it would profit you,
my elder brethren, to mark the instruction which
the season brings. The opting and summer, of
your days are gone, and with them not only joys
they knew, bet many of the friends who gave them.
You have entered upon the autumn of your being
and whatever may have been the profusion of your
spring, or the warm temperature of your summer,
there is 11 season of stillness, of solitude, which the
beneficence of heaven affords you, in whirls you
may meditate upon the past and future, and pre
pare yourself for the mighty change which you
may soon undergo. It is now that you may un
derstand the magnificent language of heaven—it
mingles its voice with that of revelation—it sum
mons you to those hours when the leaves fall, and
the winter is gathering, to that evening study
which the mercy of heaven has provided in the
book of salvation. And while the shadowy valley
opens, which leads to the abode of death, it speaks
of that love that can comfort and save, and which
coducts to those green pastures, and those atilt
waters, where there is an eternal spring fur the
children of God.
Thoughts and Sentiments.
0, the smile of childhood's slumbers, is there
ought on earth so lovely?
The want of leisure is often only the want of
A child's heart responds to the tones of it moth
er's voice like a harp to the wind.
Never affect to be witty, or to jest so as to wound
the feelings of another.
Say as little as possible of yourself, and of those
who are near you.
Never be influenced by external appearances
in forming your judgement of a person's worth.—
This is an important rule; for many a noble spi
rit is covered by the habiliments of poverty;
while, not unfregeuently, a showey exterior con
ceals a villian.
Every man who breathes, whether master or
servant, employer or employed, young and old,
rich and poor, each has it in his power, as he'
passes along his own life-path either to shed a ray
of sunshine on that of his fellow man, or to dark
en it by his shade.
People, says Giallo, arc always talking about
originality, but what do they mean? As soon as
we are born the world begins to work upon no,
and this goes on to the end. And, after all what
can we call our own, except energy, strength, and
will? If I could give an account ofall that I owe
to great predecessors and contemporaries, there
would be but a small balance in my favor.
The Victim of Consumption.
If there be a disease in this world of ills, which
seems in a peculiar manner to fit its victim for the
fate which human skill cannot avert, that disease
is consumption. To one who is full of life, and
hope, and joy, the first conviction that it has fas
tened its death grasp upon him, the fearful certain
ty of its end will flash through him with a thrill of
terror—more, doubtless, than that of most other
diseases. Startling, it must be, indeed, to feel for
the first time, that there is a worm, gnawing at
one's vitals, whose greedy teeth no human skill eau
stay—startling to feel the certainty of disease
within, whose end is surely death. But how soon
' does the spirit grow calm; and as he feels the dis
ease tugging at his heartstrings, and his strength
westing away before it, how calmly then, does the
soul phase itself for its upward flight—how tilts
tingly 'then, does it lean upon the bosom of its God
—and when flesh and heart grow faint, and fail,
how sweetly sinks to its final rest, the victim of
" so fades the summer cloud away,
So sinks the gale when storms aro o'er,
So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore."
Golden Rules for Brides.
Resolve every morning to be cheerful that day;
and should any thing occur to break your resolu
tion, suffer it not to put you out of temper with
your husband. Dispute not with him, be the oc
casion what it may; but much rather deny your
self the satisflietion of having your own will or
gaining the better of an argument than risk a quar
rel or create a heart burning, which it is impossi
ble to see the end of. Implicit submission in is
man to his wife is ever disgraceful to both ; but
implicit submission in a wife to the just will of her
husband is what she promised at the altar.-what
the good will revere her for; and what is, in fact,
the greatest honor she can receive.
Be assured, a woman's power, as well as her
happiness, has no other foundation than her hus
band's esteem and love, which it is her interest, by
all possible means to preserve and increase—share
and smooth his cares, and, with the utmost assi
duity, conceal his errors.
GENIIIIL—They say of the poets, that they
must be born such if so must mathematicians, so
must great generals, and so must lawyers, and
they should excel ; but with whatever facilities wo
are born, and to whatever studies our genius may
direct us, studies they still must be. Nature gives
a bias to respective pursuits; and this strong pro
pensity is what we mean by genus. Milton did
not write his '° Paradise Lost," nor Homer his
"Iliad," nor Newton his "Principia," without im
mense labor.
Cr Labor has its sages, though they dispense
with and Academy, and its kings, *nigh tbir tol
sot inrested idth Fares.